Pyramids and Sphinxes and Murder Oh My!
by darthsydious
Summary: 1923, Egypt. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper arrive in Egypt to solve a case. Joining them are John and Mary Watson, currently on their honeymoon. Naturally, things never take long to pick up. Sherlolly, Warstan. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

"Well, well, Sherlock Holmes has finally joined the rest of the fashionable world!" Mary Watson offered her cheek to him and he bent to press it, squeezing her hands. "How does it feel?"

"Awful," he said, having greeted her. "I am here only for the case, naturally. The fact that you and John happened to be here on honeymoon is entirely coincidence."

"And you've brought along Miss Hooper because…" Sherlock swiveled back to where Molly stood by their luggage, checking that the trunks were accounted for.

"She is useful."

"Mmhm," Mary had an all-too-knowing gleam in her eye that made Sherlock uncomfortable. "Seems to me I recall a certain pathologist claiming she'd always dreamt of going to Egypt and she'd absolutely die, just _die_ if she ever got the chance."

"Well," Sherlock looked at his boots, and then back up out over the expanse of the train station. "One hopes she won't hold to that."

"Indeed," Mary smiled at him, squeezed his arm and then lifted her hand, waving to Molly. She hurried over, scarf flapping behind her as Watson came into view, bringing a porter.

"Holmes, where did you come, by way of Australia? We met the train six times this past week expecting you."

"Got off on a wrong stop," Sherlock excused.

"For an entire week?"

"You'd be surprised how far behind taking a wrong train will do for one's schedule."

"Mmm," John grunted, not at all believing him. "Well looks like your luggage is accounted for, shall we fetch the girls?"

Greetings exchanged, they piled into two cabs, luggage loaded on the backs and they headed for the hotel. Molly leaned forward, brownie camera clutched in her hands as she carefully snapped a shot of the passing scenery. Tucking it away safely, she settled in, sighing in delight.

"Thank you for letting us stop in Paris," she said after a moment. Sherlock shrugged in response.

"It's been too long since I properly saw the city," he said after a moment. "It doesn't bother me so much; it can be pleasing, seeing the sights through someone else's eyes."

"And then to stop in Venice too," she said. "I feel awful for delaying your case, you should have told me how important it was."

"One should attend at least one Venetian masked ball if they can manage it," he excused.

"I'll send your brother a thank you note, for getting our costumes on such short notice."

"Nonsense," he snorted. "He didn't make them."

"Yes, but he did call in a favor for us, and that was terribly obliging of him," Molly said.

"Hm. He likes you."

"Does he?" Molly asked, and smiled. Holding her hand up to shade her eyes, she looked up at Sherlock. "Makes me feel like I've accomplished something."

"He's not easily won over, I'll grant you that," Sherlock replied, not liking the jealous feeling settling in his gut.

"Neither are you," her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, and his childish envy abated, and he felt somewhat ridiculous. Molly admired his brother like her own older brother, nothing more.

The cabs came to a stop, and the driver hopped out. Bellhops from the hotel hurried out to assist with the luggage. Sherlock climbed down while the driver held the horse steady. Hands around Molly's waist he lifted her to the ground, ignoring Mary and John's looks. Tucking Molly's arm in his, he led the way into the hotel.

"Look how comfortable they are," Mary commented to John, who nodded in response. Whatever had happened in their week-long delay to Egypt, Molly and Sherlock had grown closer, far more comfortable together than before. There was a bounce in Molly's step. Sherlock had learned to shorten his long strides so Molly wouldn't have to take two steps to his one.

"I hope you don't mind, with the hotel being crowded, your rooms are adjoining, but you'll hardly notice, I'm sure," John said, and Mary winked at Molly, who flushed.

"We'll let you freshen up, you must be exhausted from traveling, see you at dinner!" John was tugging Mary along down the hall to their room (they were, after all, still on their honeymoon).

Unlocking her door, Molly stepped inside, and Sherlock waited until he heard her customary sigh of delight at her surroundings before opening the door to his suite.

Spacious and airy, he did not fault Molly for her excitement. The hotel spared no expense, and the view of the Great Pyramids from the adjoining balcony was stunning. He half hoped the case would be wrapped up soon so he could take Molly around Cairo to see the sights. The shuttered doors that connected the rooms flew open, Molly, divested of shoes and hat scurried in. Used to this habit, Sherlock sidestepped her as she somersaulted onto the bed, kicking her stocking feet in the air with a shrill giggle. She'd done the same in Paris, scaring him half to death, (he was unused to seeing her so at ease) and then again in Venice. He quite expected it now.

"Are you quite done ruining my bedspread?" he asked as she flopped over onto her back, head against the pillows.

"For the moment," she sighed, breathless. "Oh look at the design on the ceiling!" she pointed to the mosaic above their heads and he looked. Blue, red, green, orange, gold and white swirled into a pattern of lotus blossoms and fish dancing across the ceiling. Once she'd settled, he tossed his jacket aside and sprawled onto the bed beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder. Silence settled comfortably between them, and in a few moments, he heard her sigh comfortably, fast asleep. He did not disturb her, instead steepling his fingers under his chin, deciding to go over the evidence of the case at hand. A string of murders involving an opened tomb, a hoard of treasure, and far too many suspects for his liking. He hoped to eliminate at least six before dinner. The scent of her perfume washed over him, and he frowned, shaking his head. After a few moments, he got up, moving to stand by the window. In a little while, he'd narrowed the list of suspects down to just two. Now to make inquiries. Putting on his jacket, he left a note for Molly, letting her know he was going out, and he would be back in time to dress for dinner.

The sun was setting when Sherlock returned. The bedclothes were still rumpled from Molly's shenanigans, but long-cold, telling him she'd gotten up to wash and dress for dinner. The shuttered doors were closed, and he could see through the slats of the door her figure moving back and forth from the mirror to her trunk so he got up, attending to his own wardrobe. It never took him long to dress, no matter what John Watson said. In twenty minutes he was showered and changed, knocking on the adjoining room door.

"Come in," Molly called and he stepped inside. She finished pinning up her hair, tucking in a stray curl before turning back to him. He smiled; pleased she was wearing the frock he'd bought her in Paris. She gave a turn, smiling back at him. "When do we go to work?" she asked.

"Soon as possible, I hoped tonight, I've narrowed the list of suspects down to Lord Cavendish and the American archaeologist, Professor Jones. Lady Hyacinth's body was found early this morning before we arrived."

"Good God, another one!" Molly gasped. "Will the British Museum send someone else to catalogue artifacts then?"

"I expect so, I cabled Mycroft, who had only just heard of it. He says they'll send someone, but the soonest will be a few weeks from now."

"How did she die?" Molly asked.

"Strangled, by a man, most definitely," Sherlock answered.

"And the suspects?"

"Both of them are expected to be dining here tonight."

"Hm," she went to the vanity, taking the string of amber and green glass beads and putting it around her neck. She checked her appearance once more. Sherlock, to stop admiring the way the back of the dress hugged her just so and flared down her legs, moved to stand beside her, pretending to adjust his tie. "I like the new style on you," she said, of his evening suit.

"I always hated tails," he agreed.

"I rather liked them on you," Molly said, smiling at his reflection, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "You look dashing regardless."

"Humph," but she could see he was pleased.

"Come on," she took his arm, grabbing her purse on the way to the door. "I'll buy you a drink."

"I don't drink on a case."

"I'll buy you a soda-water then," she rolled her eyes with a laugh.

Lord Cavendish and Professor Jones were both dining at the hotel that evening, just as Sherlock hoped. Sherlock was somewhat disappointed, however. Dancing was the best way to get close to a person, and he couldn't very well dance with either of them. Mary and Molly happily stepped in (as neither of the suspects was terribly difficult to look at).

While the girls did their part, happily playing the insipid peacocks to distract Lord Cavendish and Professor Jones, John and Sherlock hurried upstairs to search their rooms. Both proved unfruitful.

"We need a smoking gun," Sherlock huffed as they made their way back downstairs.

"You mean another murder?" Watson asked. "If one of them did kill Lady Hyacinth, they wouldn't be dumb enough to take evidence back to their rooms."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock replied. He stood against the far wall, looking over the restaurant and ballroom. Couples milled about. He could see Molly and Lord Cavendish by the bar. She played the part of a silly young woman traveling alone all too well. She held a cocktail, giggling over the rim of her glass at him. She brushed the sleeve of Lord Cavendish, red lips curving up into a flirtatious smile. When Lord Cavendish turned to speak to the bartender, she poured some of her drink out, pretending to have drunk it. She met Sherlock's gaze across the room, giving him the tiniest of nods. He stared back at her, not sure if he had understood her signal. She nodded again, this time flicking her gaze towards Lord Cavendish twice.

"Molly's got something," he straightened, and John followed. They neared the bar, standing not too far from Molly and Cavendish.

"You've been to the excavation site?" Molly was asking excitedly. Cavendish, well into his cups, but doing quite well at keeping upright and appearing mostly sober, nodded.

"I have," he nodded, puffing himself up. "I've been inside Tutankhamen's burial chamber, and handled artifacts as precious as…" he fingered the beads around her neck, trailing his hand lower and lower. She covered his hand, quickly moving it, but smiling all the while.

"When did you last visit?" she pressed herself closer.

"Oh a day or so ago," Cavendish replied easily. "Had some business to attend to," he suddenly frowned, studying her. "Why?"

"No reason," Molly looked up at him, the picture of innocence. "There's been such excitement going on at the pyramids, aside from the killings, of course."

"Idiots," Cavendish spat. "Treasure seekers," he leaned closer. "If people died, it's because they were thieves,"

"I- I don't know what you mean, surely Lady Hyacinth wasn't a thief," she stammered. Cavendish was beginning to feel the alcohol affect him. He turned to look at the ballroom, finding Professor Jones.

"A word of advice, Miss Hooper," he looked back at her. "Don't trust the American archaeologist."

"Why ever not?" she asked softly.

"Because I saw him commit murder,"

"What?!" her voice was barely above a whisper, not daring to believe what she'd just heard. "You're certain?"

"Of course I am!" Cavendish insisted. "I was in the burial chamber last night, you know Lady Hyacinth had a pretty heavy hand in what the British Museum gets to take back from this dig, she'd been hand-picking a lot, some say she'd been taking some for her own private collection, even though she came after the discovery was made."

"She wasn't on the original crew that found the burial chamber?" Molly asked, and Cavendish shook his head.

"Lot of people feel she doesn't have a right to be here. Big know-it-all thought she could waltz in just because she was on the board of directors for the museum."

"What's that got to do with what you saw the other night?" Molly pressed. Cavendish took her by the arm, leading her away from the bar to a quiet corner.

"I was in the burial chamber, finishing up the last bit of inventory for the day, tagging vases and less precious objects to be packed up. Jones and Hyacinth have always butted heads, you know how we English get when an American comes onto our turf, but I'd rather back Jones than Hyacinth, he knows what he's doing, and anyway he's an archaeologist. Well, I'd have backed him before I know now what sort of man he is."

"What did he _do?_ " Molly asked, growing impatient.

"He killed Lady Hyacinth," Cavendish said, hushed, eyes bugged wide. "I heard a scuffle, and I looked around, sometimes rats get in the dig sights and the cobras catch them. When I came around the corner, I could see Jones strangling Lady Hyacinth."

"You're _sure_ it was him?" Molly gasped.

"It was his jacket, and his hat," Cavendish finished his drink, he leaned close, swallowing. "And there's more, he keeps a diary, I've been doing some snooping," he said proudly. "You heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I think so," Molly answered, schooling her features. John Watson stood with his back to them, coughed, covering a laugh.

"He's an _idiot_ compared to me!" Cavendish was in his element, quite happy to boast before a pretty young woman. "Jones wrote in his diary that he would kill Lady Hyacinth, and if we give it to the police he'll be arrested!" He took her by the hand, dragging her along.

"Wait, wait, Lord Cavendish," Molly tugged on him to no avail. He dragged her through the hallways until he finally stopped in the foyer of the hotel. "How do you know he wrote it?" Molly asked. "Maybe someone is trying to frame him; an American archaeologist traveling alone probably doesn't have a lot of friends."

"No," Cavendish agreed. "He doesn't."

"If you know something, you should tell the police," she said, holding fast to where she stood. "We can't legally enter his room without a search warrant."

"He doesn't keep his diary in his room," Cavendish said. "It's always in his breast pocket." Molly frowned at this as Cavendish fumbled through his pockets for his watch.

"It's very late," she said finally. "Perhaps you'd best be off,"

"I should at that," he agreed slowly. "Don't trust Jones, hear? He'll try and pin it one someone else, deny it, but he's a killer, it's him! Remember that?"

"I will," she answered, placating. He wandered off, out of the foyer and down the steps to the street. Once out of sight, Molly sprinted back through the foyer, down the dark halls and to the restaurant. Sherlock, John and Mary met her on the stairs.

"There you are!" Sherlock looked worried. "Where is Cavendish?"

"Gone, or at least I think so," Molly answered, breathless. "Let's go upstairs where we can talk in private." Sherlock took her arm while John and Mary led the way.

 **Upstairs, Sherlock and Molly's adjoining suites**

Molly had changed into her pyjamas, tying a green silk and velvet short robe about her slender frame. She recalled exactly what Cavendish had told her.

"How would he know what Jones wrote in his diary if it's always on the professor's person?" Mary asked.

"How, indeed," Sherlock said. "He most likely does keep the diary on his person, but the contents of it, Cavendish most likely is making up. Cavendish claims he was in the burial chamber late last night," Sherlock stood, pacing the room. "I know his schedule, having inquired several hotel staff, some of the locals and a few of the people who work at the dig."

"Is that where you were this afternoon?" Molly asked.  
"Mm," Sherlock nodded. "I also met someone who will give us a tour of the sphinx and pyramids after this case has been solved."

"You're that confidant?" John asked, and then rolled his eyes as soon as the words left his mouth. "Of course you are. Very well then, who did it?"

"Cavendish, of course," Sherlock snorted. "Lord Cavendish, for all his talk, has set foot in the tomb of Tutankhamen all of three times, last year when the steps were first discovered, again, when the tomb was first opened, and last night, when he killed Lady Hyacinth and decided to blame Jones."

"But _why_ did he kill her?" Mary asked.

"Lady Hyacinth does have a rather heavy hand on what artifacts the British Museum gets to take," Sherlock said. "She hired Professor Jones, who works for the British Museum, to help catalogue and date all the pieces being sent to England. Cavendish, who is bankrupt from the war, has been traveling the continent on borrowed money and use of his title. When he heard all the fuss going on in Egypt, he supposed he could help himself easily enough if he nicked a few items from a dead king. All he had to do was befriend Lady Hyacinth and he'd cinch the deal. Jones was on to him, of course, and Lady Hyacinth was no fool, or rather, she wasn't foolish enough to fall for Cavendish."  
"Look where it got her though," Molly said. "And anyway, even if Cavendish did kill her, what about the three other deaths?"

"Cavendish, again, obviously, he had to get close to Lady Hyacinth somehow," Sherlock said. "How else but to create a job opening? Unfortunately, Lady Hyacinth did not take kindly to a puffed up, bankrupt Lord of England trying to muscle in on probably the greatest find of her career and sent him packing. He couldn't have that, and knowing that Jones was close to her, followed them to the tomb last night, knocked out Jones, and strangled Lady Hyacinth. He has already been interrogated by the police, but being a victim himself, naturally he is not suspected."

"Especially as he was hit on the back of the head," Molly added.

"He seemed in top form, for being assaulted last night," Mary said with a frown. "Not broken up over the death of a friend, we can assume he and Lady Hyacinth were at least that, can't we?" she suddenly asked.

"I should think so, but that _is_ curious," Sherlock agreed.

"Do you think he's suffering from a concussion?" Molly asked, turning to Watson. "Perhaps short-term memory loss?"

"Mary?" John turned to his wife, who had spoken the most with Professor Jones.

"By all outward appearances, he _seemed_ fine," she said slowly. "Just sometimes he'd…" she shook her head, unable to say what she meant. "Gosh I wish I could find the words," she muttered. "Have you ever seen a man look human before?" the group looked at her, waiting for her to explain. "I mean that he understands his mortality. He'd be gay and charming one minute, and then quiet and rather still the next, as if he was remembering."

"He was struck hard enough to render him unconscious," John said finally. "Sherlock, what if Cavendish was planning on killing them both, and left last night thinking both were dead."

"What a surprise then, to see Jones dancing as if nothing were wrong, the night after a friend was murdered-" Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Molly Hooper you have hit the nail exactly, short term memory loss. It explains why he's out and about today, why he's acting as though nothing is wrong, he can't remember if something is wrong or not. He did not see Lady Hyacinth every day, so he hasn't registered something is wrong. It explains too why Lord Cavendish was drinking so much, he was upset because Jones is still very much alive!"

"Good God!" Molly gasped. "Sherlock he must plan on finishing the job tonight!" There was a cry from the street, startling them all. In a rush, they all crowded onto the balcony, peering down to the street below. A carriage stood in the dark, waiting. Two men, one struggling against the other, were making their way slowly towards it.

"Be still you meddling-"

"Where is Lily? What have you done with her?" the other cried.

"Lily Hyacinth," Sherlock breathed, realizing. Cavendish struck Jones, and the professor slumped forward. Cavendish dumped him into the carriage, taking hold of the reigns. The carriage pulled away and Sherlock nearly hurled himself over the balcony after it before coming to his senses. "He's got Jones already! Come along John, we've got to stop Cavendish before it's too late!" He bolted for the door, John close behind. Molly shoved her feet into her silk slippers, holding out her hand for Mary to grab, to keep her balance.

"Mary, you and Molly ring the police! They're heading for the Valley of Kings!" Sherlock bellowed down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

Through the streets of Cairo towards the open desert, Sherlock and John raced after Lord Cavendish. The carriage, pulled by two horses was far off in the distance, Cavendish had gotten a tremendous head start. Sherlock cursed, urging his mount onward, John close on his heels.

By the time they caught up to Cavendish, he had reached the tomb of Tutankhamen. Sherlock leapt from his horse, leaving John to hold the reins and tether them off. He checked the interior of the carriage, the doors left open.

"Gone, probably into the tomb," he confirmed. "Tie off the horses, John, and hurry, we've got to catch him!"

Shining a flashlight on the sand around the carriage wheels, they found footprints.

"Dragged him," John said. They followed the trail towards the dark entrance of the tomb. They stood at the entrance, hearing the sound of a body being pulled across the ground.

"Cavendish!" Sherlock bellowed. In the dim light, they saw a shape turn with a start, then take off, leaving a shapeless lump in the corridor. "Professor Jones- see to him John!" he ran down the entrance steps, jumping over a still unconscious Jones.

 **Back at the Hotel**

Mary and Molly rang the police immediately. At first nothing seemed to be accomplished, the police not believing a perfectly respectable English Lord was about to commit murder, but at the mention of the world famous detective Sherlock Holmes, help was promised.

"What do we do now?" Mary asked, having expected the phone call to take longer than it actually did. "They won't be there for ages, if they're anything like the police back home."

"We follow them of course!" Molly said, and Mary beamed.

"I was hoping you'd say that, come on!"

Hurrying outside, they looked for a pair of horses or at the very least a taxi they could abscond with. Instead, all that waited outside the hotel was a bellhop minding two camels.

"Excuse me, can we borrow these?" Mary asked, already climbing onto one of them.

"What?" the porter looked confused. "Oh, I'm minding them for-"

"You're very kind, thanks very much!" Mary said.

"We'll bring them back I promise," Molly said as hers stood up, obeying her command to move forward. Mary, still in her evening clothes, struggled into the saddle, finally finding purchase.

"We'll never catch them at this rate!" she groused.

"Nonsense! Camels are as fast as horses!" Molly urged her mount on, and he took off with a grunt. She might have laughed, if not for the fact that they were racing across the desert to keep a man from committing murder.

 **Valley of Kings, Tutankhamen's Tomb**

Sherlock stayed close to the wall of the corridor, eyes on the dimly lit chamber at the far end. Cavendish on the far side of the burial chamber, torch in hand.

"Lord Cavendish," the man fairly trembled. "Planning on leaving Professor Jones to the snakes, the same as Lady Hyacinth? It's a shame the bruises on her neck gave you away."

"You can't prove anything," Cavendish shot back.

"I think you'll find I can," a gunshot startled them both, and Cavendish took his opportunity, making for the exit. Sherlock caught up with him, grabbing him by the collar. John, who had been shooting at a snake, saw them both coming and left Jones for a moment.

"See to the professor," Sherlock said, mid-scuffle. He lunged for Cavendish's legs, keeping him from reaching the carriage.

Across the open desert, Mary and Molly raced, camels bleating and groaning as they urged them faster. In the distance the Great Pyramids loomed.

By the time they got there, Sherlock and Cavendish were in the midst of a scuffle, neither above going against Queensbury Regulations. John, meanwhile, was trying to revive Professor Jones.

"Here," Molly said unsure of how to dismount a camel, slid down. She kept well out of the way as Sherlock received a good knock on his jaw. Mary tossed Molly her purse. Digging through it, she found a vial of smelling salts. John uncorked it, supporting Jones head. Mary, for her part, pulled off one of her heels, sprinting through the sand. Cavendish had Sherlock on his back. Hurling herself at Cavendish, she wielded her shoe like a hammer, knocking him hard on the back of the head. Cavendish turned, and Sherlock took his chance, socking him on the jaw.

Lord Cavendish slumped over, unconscious. Breathing heavily, coughing up sand, Sherlock sat up.

"My thanks," he breathed. Mary smiled in return.

"I always wanted to do that," she shrugged. "Molly, give me the sash to your robe, would you?" Molly sat on her heels, untying her belt.

"Here, tie him up," she said, tossing it at Sherlock. "The police are on their way. Sherlock bent, securing Lord Cavendish's hands behind his back with the tasseled silk. Mary traded places with Molly, seeing to Professor Jones with her husband. Molly went to sit on Cavendish's legs while Sherlock finished tying him up. In the distance they could see the police wagons coming.

"You know something," she looked up at the consulting detective.

"What?"

"I rather like Egypt," he said. "We should come here for our honeymoon."

"Honeymoon?" Molly quirked an eyebrow. "Mister Holmes, you would have to propose to me first, I deserve that at least."

"Very well," he agreed easily. Molly laughed, leaning over and kissing him gently. "You knew I would fall in love with you, didn't you?"

"When you invited me along on this case I had an inkling you already did," she confessed. "Paris was a good hint, but by the time we got to Venice I was sure of it, I simply had to wait for you to come round to the idea."  
"And when did you realize it?" She smiled up at him.

"I suppose that was rather obvious," he nodded.

The police wagon came rolling up, they both stood, stepping aside so the police could take Cavendish away. Jones was taken back to the infirmary in Cairo, and the foursome headed back to the hotel, tired and dirty.

"See you in the morning," Mary pressed Molly's cheek. "Or if I know my John, mid morning." Molly laughed.

"It's your honeymoon, stay abed as long as you like."

"Yes, don't disturb us," Sherlock said, tugging Molly by the arm. "We've lots to do before we catch the evening train back to Italy."

Back in her own room, Molly sank into the bathtub with a sigh. A small knock on her bathroom door made her start.

"Don't come in, I'm not decent."

"Shall I put up the screen? I won't look, but I must talk to you." Molly sighed, rolling her eyes.

"You can wait ten minutes for me to finish. I won't be long." She could almost hear Sherlock scowling. He flopped onto her bed.

"Fine."

Just to punish him for being rude, Molly took her time in the bath. Twenty minutes or so, she decided he'd waited long enough and got out, drying off before finding a fresh change of pajamas. Leaving the door open to let the steam out of the bathroom, she found Sherlock on her balcony, looking out at the view. On light feet, she stole up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.

"Took you long enough," he muttered.

"Don't be cross, I was stiff from riding,"

"I could have given you a massage."

"Hmmm, and then done married things before the wedding," she teased.

"I would not! Anyway…" he coughed. "It's 1923."

"Call me old-fashioned if you want," he turned in her arms, settling his own about her slender waist.

"You will marry me, though?" he asked. She smiled, rising up on tip-toe to gently press his forehead, his cheeks and then finally his mouth.

"Silly man, of course I will."

"Good, then you can have this," he dug through the pockets of his dressing gown, pulling out a diamond ring.

"Where on earth did you get that?" she gasped. She held it up in the moonlight, he took it from her, slipping it safely onto her finger for her to admire.

"Paris." She looked up at him, quite surprised. His smile was soft, his expression warm. "You said you thought it took me a little while to come round to the idea of loving you, you were right, but a little off."

"Well," she smiled shakily. "I never could tell what was going on in that head of yours."

"Nonsense," he bent, drawing her close. "You above all people know best what I'm usually planning."

"I don't suppose you'd like to get married tomorrow?" She asked, breathless. He chuckled.

"I did say I'd like our honeymoon to be in Egypt."

"Oh but I don't want to spoil John and Mary's," Molly insisted, worried.

"Who says we'll be seeing them at all after the ceremony?" Sherlock asked with a mischievously naughty look in his eyes. Molly blushed, but did not contradict him. Besides, she was much too busy kissing him.


End file.
